What Happened in Budapest Stays in Budapest
by Firetoflame
Summary: Natasha: "It's like Budapest all over again." Clint: "You and I remember Budapest very differently." Which begs the question: What exactly did happen in Budapest?
1. Chapter 1

It was twilight: that in between-time when the light was deceiving. It wasn't quite bright enough to highlight the surroundings in great detail, but it wasn't dark enough for Black Widow's eyes to adjust to the sharper sight that was required in the dark. Everything was pale and yellow and dim. Natasha hated it.

Clint on the other hand was completely at ease. His eyes, impossibly wide in the waning sun, were focused, darting back and forth. As his gaze travelled, it grew to include Natasha. After several months of being partners, Clint had learned of numerous, tiny, unmistakable cues that spoke of her unease. Right now she was rigid, tense. Her shoulders arched as if she might have to spring at any moment. Her lips curved into an unmistakable frown.

"Romanoff," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "Relax, it's just reconnaissance."

At the sound of his voice she visibly relaxed, her shoulders dipping into a more natural position. Clint was surprised and even Natasha didn't know why his voice seemed to sooth the tension rippling over her skin, but it did. Something about the gravely sound his voice made as the air vibrated between the vocal chords. The way he managed to say her last name without rolling the 'R'. (She was Russian and was still getting used to the dropped consonants.) Mostly it was the way he spoke in an intimate whisper, even though they were the only ones around.

Clint reached out to touch her shoulder, in a reassuring sort of way, but Natasha's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist expertly, though she hadn't even turned her head yet. Her fingers were firm, but gentle, only meaning to catch his attention, not cause him pain. He knew she could snap his wrist like a twig if she so desired it. "Barton, look," she said, nodding below.

Reluctantly, Clint pulled his eyes away from her face: the delicate curve of her jaw, the slightly arched eyebrow, the perfectly pouted lips. He shook off the spell that she was unconsciously casting over him to peer over the side of the building.

The rooftop they were scouting from was high, but not high enough that his unparalleled eyesight was impacted. He saw each detail imprinted on the men leaving the safe house in clear cut perfection, as if he was watching a movie reel in slow motion.

He waded through the mob off people that had emerged, searching for one face in particular. He didn't see it. Not yet.

They had a target, their first target together. At Director Fury's insistence Clint had spent the better part of six months training with Agent Romanoff, otherwise known as the infamous and deadly, Black Widow.

Clint had never been worried about it, but Fury and Coulson had their reservations. Black Widow had once been a target with a dangerous reputation. It was only because Clint had felt something incredibly strong, almost like a cosmic gravity forcing his bow to drop, that he neglected to terminate her, instead opting to turn the Widow: make her an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D.

For months, Coulson and Fury refused to send the pair on assignment, insisting they get to know each other better: learn each other's cues, strengths, weaknesses. To Clint's surprise, the Black Widow was less reserved about the partnership than he thought she would be. Six months passed quickly as the pair learned about each other, trained, sparred, and prepared; prepared to know one another well enough to read off each other in the thick of the battle.

And now, they finally had a target. They had a mission. It was simple enough. The leader of a weapon trafficking ring who was supplying several terrorist groups in the Middle East had caught the attention of S.H.I.E.L.D. All they had to do was terminate the target, locate the weapons storage, infiltrate the building and destroy it. Simple, right?

So far they had found it difficult to locate said _ring leader_. A tip from a man that Natasha had weeded information out of the previous day led them here.

The man was still tied up several blocks away in a dingy bathroom where he had mindlessly followed Natasha as she called to him, not out loud, but in that highly feminine way where she batted her heavy, mascara lined eyelashes and swayed her hips innocently. The man had followed Black Widow as she strung him along on the sticky strands of her web, a move where the hunter unknowingly became the prey.

Clint had watched from above, using the ventilation grate as his perch. Even he had to admit that Natasha was good. No, she was beyond good. She was irresistible when she was in action. That's what made her so deadly. The seductive innocence she portrayed lured the men in and then they were trapped, because Black Widows were poisonous by nature.

The fact that Natasha was so dangerous to any human being: man or woman, big, small, young, old, should have comforted Clint. But the sharp pain, like a hook behind his navel, that he felt as the man stalked Natasha had almost driven him to fly from his coup and rain down on his head. That would have ruined everything.

Clint couldn't explain it, but the idea of the man touching Natasha, even if it was all part of her plan, made him sick, in a twisted sort of way: one that made him volatile. For a good hour Clint wanted to kill every living piece of scum Budapest had to offer. He didn't. He had more control than that, but Natasha was tempting it and he didn't know why.

Before the man could lay a finger on her, she had him in a sleeper's hold; Black Widow silencing her victim. Clint watched, ready to strike if the need arose. It never did.

Natasha tied the man against one of the rundown stalls and beat him back to consciousness. Once she had him awake and a gun pressed to his temple he was quite compliant.

"Barton," Natasha said roughly. His mind had been wandering faster than his eyes. "Is it him?" Natasha asked.

Clint stared, zoning in on a new face sheltered beneath a fraying baseball cap. Mid-forties. Beady eyes, like a beetles, blinked rapidly. A thin, hooked nose. Scar across his lower left cheek. Coarse, stippled skin. Slick black hair flecked with grey.

"It's him," Clint confirmed.

Natasha reached for the gun holstered at her waist. Clint grabbed for her arm. "Wait," he told her.

"Are you kidding me?" she whispered furiously. "This is the first sign of him. What if it's our last?"

Clint furrowed his brow, peering over the side of the building again. "He's got too many people around him," he said.

"Casualties of war," Natasha murmured, cocking her gun. Clint's grip tightened on her wrist.

"Romanoff, we have one target. Everyone else killed today would be an innocent. We can't do that."

"Even if they are working for the bad guy," Natasha protested.

"They are not the ones in the file," Clint reminded her. "That's the difference here. S.H.I.E.L.D takes out the target and no one else, unless absolutely necessary. I know the Widow is telling you to just pop them all off, but that's not how we do things."

"It would be more efficient if you did."

"That's the assassin talking."

"Isn't that what I was hired to be, an assassin?" Natasha countered.

"You were hired as a spy. Your particular skills are an asset to that."

"I'm pretty sure this mission was to take a guy out, not read through his personal files."

"You going to argue with everything I say?" Clint griped.

"Depends." Natasha gave him a small, almost nonexistent smile under the hard frown. "Is everything you say going to be stupid?"

Clint huffed, his eyes, with great effort, leaving Natasha's face and darting back towards the scene below.

"He's getting into the car. I can still make the shot from here," Natasha said hurriedly. Her finger was poised on the trigger. She was a crack shot. Clint knew she wouldn't miss.

"Don't you dare," Clint said through his teeth. "We'll end up in the middle of a turf war. Don't even tell me you don't think those guys are armed. They belong to a weapon trafficking ring for crying out loud."

"I could take them all in thirty seconds," Natasha argued. "What about you, Legolas. How fast can you reload?"

"Fast enough to shoot you in the butt if you don't start listening." Clint eyed her seriously. "Communication. That's going in the report to Coulson. You need to work on that."

Natasha cocked a red eyebrow at him. It rose to a dangerous point. As perfect and sharp as the knives she had tucked into her belt. "Well, I might as well have some fun then, if this is going to be my first and last mission as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent." Her frown became a devilish grin. "What do you think about going out with a bang?"

"Romanoff!"

"Okay, I was kidding. The silencer is on. Geez."

"Romanoff!"

"What?" Natasha snapped, finally looking at her partner again. She had unconsciously released the second gun she had strapped to her thigh, both locked and loaded.

"Put the guns away and stand down or I _will _shoot you with one of my tranquilizer arrows."

Natasha scowled at him for a long minute. Clint bit back a laugh. He couldn't remember the last time an agent had scowled at him, especially on mission, especially looking so adorable. It was easy to forget sometimes that Natasha was a killing machine.

"Be patient," Clint told her as she muttered furiously under her breath; the English swear words quickly turning into Russian babble as she strapped the guns down to her suit once again.

Clint smirked, which infuriated Natasha even more. She was not used to this wishy-washy, sit and wait junk. She was used to quick results. In and out, strike hard and fast, like the deadly spider she was supposed to be. In another life she would have taken out the entire group of men stumbling out of the bar that doubled as the rings safe house. Back then she wouldn't have cared whether one man was innocent or guilty of more than those that currently rotted in hell. She was indifferent. Anything that stood in the way of her and her target was collateral damage. But now she had to care. Clint made her care.

"Argh," Natasha groaned as the black sedan pulled away. "He's gone."

"Patience," Clint said again. "I'm going to recommend you work on that when we get back to base. I'll put it in the report as well."

"I know just where you can stuff that report, Hawkeye," Natasha quipped.

Clint nudged her and she grimaced, rolling her eyes. "You know exactly what to say to piss me off."

"I should. I'm your partner," Clint said with a cheeky grin.

Natasha huffed, the small gust of breath pushing aside her bangs. "Now what?" she asked, irritated.

Clint smiled, rocking back on his heels. He drew in the dirt that covered the roof, forming the base for a game of Tic-Tac-Toe. He looked up at her. "Now, we wait."


	2. Chapter 2

They had been waiting for two days straight, camped out on the rooftop, when Natasha grew far too impatient to be patient. The target's she chose to practice her knife throwing on were getting impossibly close to Clint's head. He didn't doubt her skill, but all she needed was one minor distraction, one little slip and he would be staring at the handle of one of her knives between his eyes.

Finally, out of desperation and human need Clint called it quits. There had been no sign of their target and they were both in dire need of a shower and something hot to eat. Having refreshed at the hotel, Clint was currently waiting for Natasha to return with the food. He rocked back and forth on his heels, a nervous habit, as he waited outside the small bakery several blocks from the hotel.

"What took you so long?" he said as Natasha emerged, carrying a small brown paper bag.

She shoved it into his hands, glancing back over her shoulder as someone followed her out.

"Hey," a gruff voice said. The man attached to the voice stopped abruptly seeing Clint. The man had a stained apron covering his front. Sweat beads clung to his forehead and he carried a thick wooden rolling pin.

Clint observed quickly, eyes flashing between the snarl on the man's lips and the rolling pin he beat into his hand. _Thud. Thud. Thud._ He wasn't the most threatening adversary Clint had ever come up against, but he was definitely mean and nasty.

Natasha stared at the man, who eyed Clint nervously before turning and stalking back into the bakery.

"Problem?" Clint asked, dipping his head so Natasha could see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses. She tended not to lie to him as much when he looked directly into her eyes.

"Nothing I couldn't handle," Natasha said shrugging. She reached into the bag Clint was holding, pulling out a small pastry. "Try one," she said. "They're still warm."

Clint allowed Natasha to shove the pastry half-way into his mouth before he bit down, shuffling the bag around so his own hand could replace hers.

"Good?" she asked.

Clint chewed and jerked his head. She smirked. "Good," he replied. "What's up with the gingerbread man?" Clint motioned to the door where the man had disappeared, before wiping a glob of jelly from his lip.

"Ian Murdoch," she said evenly.

Clint paused. They had started walking down the street, hand in hand, passing off as the vacationing newly-weds they were supposed to be posing as.

He twirled Natasha to face him so fast that her hand flew out to brace herself, flattening against his chest. To anyone else they looked like a young couple in love. But the stare Clint gave her said a thousand other things.

"And?" Clint asked. "What about the target?"

Natasha grinned. "Apparently our target enjoys homemade pastries too."

Clint licked his bottom lip, waiting for her to explain. He still tasted jelly.

Natasha followed the movement of his tongue with her eyes. When she finally spoke it was slow, "There was an order sitting on the counter when I went to pay." She rifled in her pocket, pulling out a scrap of white paper. "This was sitting on top."

Clint's eyes barrelled through the words. It was an address followed by the name _Ian Murdoch_.

"Home address?" Clint wondered.

Natasha shrugged. "I doubt it, but hopefully it's a decent lead."

"That still doesn't explain who that guy was," Clint said.

"The clerk didn't like the way I was checking out the order, so he called into the kitchen and Ugly shows up, looking like he wants to take my head off," Natasha said.

"Do you think he works for Murdoch?" Clint wondered.

"My guess is this whole city is somehow wrapped up in his illegal activity, even if they don't know it," Natasha stated plainly.

Clint looked at her thoughtfully. "Only one way to find out." He took her hand in his, acting very much in love, as they set off briskly in the direction of the hotel they were staying at.

It was a divvy little place in an area of the city that normal people tended to avoid. But for two master assassins in was home. No one looked at you twice if you knocked someone on their ass and it was also easier to unpack a suitcase full of weapons when there was no maid making daily rounds.

It took them most of the day to prepare. They were waiting for the cover of night to mask their activity. Once the weapons and gear had been assembled, Natasha and Clint slipped back into their suits, officially becoming Black Widow and Hawkeye.

Suited up, they followed the lead on a small GPS locator just as the sun was setting, clinging to the shadows to avoid detection. They weren't the craziest looking characters in Budapest. The city's nightlife had many strangely dressed people to offer, but two leather clad foreigners, one with guns strapped all over her body and the other with a sheath of arrows hanging from his back, tended to draw attention. And they didn't need a run in with the local authorities. S.H.I.E.L.D protocol required they keep a low profile, which explained the dumpster they were currently crouched behind in a dank alley, attempting to avoid a rowdy group of men.

Natasha shifted, her long red hair draping around her shoulders. The men stumbled awkwardly, laughing and cursing, several meters from where they were hiding. She could smell the alcohol on them. Vodka: the cheap stuff. Natasha could tell.

Clint watched as well, but his eyes spent equal time flitting to Natasha. Even in the dark his vision was unmatched. He noticed the way her leather suit wrapped around each curve, hugging her body. He longed to reach out and wrap his fingers in the red curls that waved down her back. Thin, delicate fingers pressed up against the dumpster as she leaned around it for a better view. Clint looked at his own rough hand; fingers calloused from years of rubbing against the quivers of his bow. He wondered what it would be like to hold her hand, for no other reason than to feel.

Clint cleared his throat. "Let's get out of here," he whispered.

Natasha huffed. "That's what I've been waiting for. These bozos won't leave." She turned to him and grimaced. "Apparently abandoned alleys are the place to be when you're drunk."

"Then let's go up," Clint said. Natasha followed his gaze in the fading light. She was still able to make out the outline of the roof.

In less than a second Clint had a quiver out and threaded along his bow. With a sound like a whip snapping it shot into the air and over the edge of the roof, clicking as the grappling hook made contact. Natasha spied around the corner of the dumpster again. The men were still entertaining themselves, oblivious to their presence. That might be about to change, but Natasha wasn't worried. They would be long gone before the men could do anything.

"Care for a lift?" Clint asked.

Natasha turned to him as he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She grabbed his shoulders as the line retracted, pulling them up. She could feel Clint's hot breath against her head. His lips brushed her hair and she took the moment to lay her head against his chest.

For an instant everything was different. It was like another world existed where this would have been okay, him holding her like this and her letting him. Then they reached the top of the cold brick wall and everything snapped back to normal as they broke away from each other, almost too quickly, once again becoming a pair of master assassins. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Together they made swift work of the city blocks, travelling faster overhead with the help of Clint's specialized quivers.

Once they reached the end of the line of buildings, Clint dropped them back down to the ground.

Their journey ended at an abandoned warehouse lot. At least it looked abandoned from the outside. But the line of black SUV's with tinted windows, which rolled up to the outside of one of the buildings said otherwise.

"Testing," Natasha whispered, adjusting her earpiece.

Clint nodded beside her. "I can hear you."

"Good," she said. "I hate wearing these."

Clint smirked. "It's in case we get separated."

"I know. I know: S.H.I.E.L.D and their safety precautions. I got the run down from Coulson."

Clint smirked. "Phil wasn't that bad."

"I felt like I was signing my life away," Natasha insisted.

"You were," Clint said. "If you ever turn against S.H.I.E.L.D…" He had gone silent but he pulled his finger across his throat.

Natasha's smile curled. "Are they going to send an assassin after the assassin?"

Clint watched her. "They already did once," he said evenly, referring to the time he was sent to kill her.

Natasha crossed her arms, trying to contain the smile before it got any wider. "And look how that turned out," she said.

Clint shrugged. "If you defect from S.H.I.E.L.D I won't go so easy on you."

"Oh, right. So you'll kick my ass."

"If that's what I have to do, then yes," Clint said.

"Guess I should behave myself then," she replied seductively.

Clint looked over his shoulder. "Unless you _want_ me to kick your ass."

Natasha scoffed. "In your dreams, Barton."

Clint turned to hide his own smile. _Most definitely. _


	3. Chapter 3

Getting into the main building had been easy. Clint got them onto the roof. They unscrewed a ventilation hatch and crawled along between the cobwebs and dust until they emerged in a room that smelt like sour milk. It looked like an old cafeteria.

They cleared the room silently, venturing into the hall. It was quiet inside, as if the warehouse really was abandoned. They checked room after room: offices, storage cupboards, electrical rooms, garbage spaces. Everything was a miss. Clint spent a few minutes gathering data off one of the computers locked away in an office that looked like it had been used recently. He pulled the quiver out of the hard drive at the sound of distant footsteps.

Apparently they were not alone.

The next few rooms had nothing in them. In fact, most of the warehouse was empty.

The last room they entered was a hit. It wasn't really a room, but a massive storage shed. The walls were made of thick concrete. Large metal roll up doors lined the room, most likely connecting to some sort of loading dock for easy transport.

"Looks like we found where the weapons are being stored," Natasha said.

Clint nodded, venturing through the rows of packaged assault rifles. There were explosives, grenades, smaller crates of hand guns. There was enough weaponry to outfit a small city: men, woman, and children alike.

"He's been busy," Clint said, eyeing the inventory.

"He has high calibre cliental paying for it," Natasha mused.

"What're you doing in here?" a cold, raspy, accented voice asked in broken English.

Natasha spun, eyes wide. Clint grabbed her arm.

The man had an assault rifle pointed at them. His head snapped to the side as he called down the hall. While he was distracted Clint yanked on Natasha's arm and hauled her over to the stairwell against the far wall. It ascended to a set of metal caged walkways that ran overhead. Clint pushed on Natasha's lower back, urging her forward.

"Mr. Murdoch," the man shouted louder, urgently, followed by a slew of Hungarian.

The man turned, spotting Natasha and Clint who had frozen on the stairs, hearing their target's name. _He_ was here.

A mob of armed men flooded the room at some barked orders, the beady eyed, ring leader at the centre of it all. _Ian Murdoch_. He didn't carry a gun. He didn't need to. He had an endless supply of paid mercenaries to fight for him.

Their target snapped his fingers and the fight ensued. Bullets hit the wall above Natasha's head repeatedly as she ducked up the stairs. Clint was right behind her. Part of the group broke off, following them up.

Natasha scrambled for her guns, releasing them from her suit. She fired repeatedly, each one of her shots taking out one of the men.

Clint followed suit, unloading an array of arrows into the crowd.

"Jesus, where were they all hiding?" Natasha breathed as she dodged another poorly aimed shot.

Clint threw himself down beside her. "Tired already?" he asked. "Thought you were just warming up."

Natasha groaned, flicking her wrist up. She shot, taking out one of the men closest to their target. A wave of concrete rained down on them as something exploded above their heads.

Clint jumped to his feet, meeting the men who had followed them up the stairs as Natasha kept the ones on the ground busy.

Clint jumped, grabbing the walkway above his head. He swung, knocking two of the men off. They squealed until they hit the ground with a chilling _splat_. Several of the men managed to duck around Clint, lunging for Natasha.

She caught them off guard in hand to hand combat. She took down one of the men, snapping his wrist back and dropping him to the ground with an elbow to the face.

The other man threw his weight behind his attack, knocking Natasha against the side of the railing. She kicked out, but the man sidestepped, catching her across the chest with a thud from his arm.

Natasha rolled away, kneeling as the man swung. She punched forward but the man threw his foot out aiming for her face so Natasha turned her attack to a defensive one.

She blocked his foot, jumping to her feet, but another kick was already lined up.

Clint pushed his last attacker down the stairs using his boot to plough into the man's chest. He turned his gaze to Natasha and saw one of the man's kicks connect. Natasha clenched, reaching to block her side. A side swipe knocked her onto her back. The man unleashed his pent up energy into her side with his heavy, military style boot. Natasha's face screwed up as her ribs took a beating. A second man approached.

Natasha reached behind her back, struggling with one of her guns. She managed to pry it out, shooting the first man in the foot. He stumbled into the railing, jumping and howling. He lost his balance and tipped over the side. The second man jumped, stomping down on her wrist and kicked the gun away. He had an assault rifle trained between her eyes. Natasha slinked away, flattening even further against the walkway as the gun barred down on her. Her chest heaved: pain, anger, fear.

Clint watched horror stricken. A loud shuffling pulled his attention away. The remaining men scattered, Ian Murdoch following behind them.

Natasha turned, seeing their target slip out the door. Clint saw it too, head snapping between the door and Natasha. He stopped on the stairs, being cut off from both sides. He uppercutted one of the men with his bow, turning and throwing the other over the railing using his own momentum. Natasha strained under the weight of the man who now had pinned her to the floor, straddling her waist. It was the weight of the gun against her forehead that worried her more.

Clint bounded back up the last flight of stairs separating him from Natasha. He flipped a quiver from his back, locked sights and fired. It hit the man square in the side of the head, right above his ear. Truthfully he had been aiming for his ear and it should have hit, but Clint's heart was pounding erratically in his own head, making him dizzy. He was terrified for Natasha, for the finger that was on the trigger, for the bullet that was a reflex away from ripping through her brain.

But Clint had hit him.

The man slumped, the full force of his dead weight knocking the air from Natasha's lungs. She pushed him off, feeling the muscles in her torso tense. Her ribs were screaming as she stood and shuffled towards Clint.

"What the hell was that?" Natasha hissed.

Clint furrowed his brows as Natasha stalked towards him. "You know S.H.I.E.L.D policy. Kill the target before you go after your partner."

Clint shrugged. "I'm not much for policy."

"Well we lost him again," she complained.

Clint looked at her seriously. "I have your back, Romanoff. That's my first priority, not Murdoch."

Natasha stopped abruptly. She nodded faintly, just the smallest tilt of her neck. It had been the fear talking, the irrational fear of death that caused her to snap at Clint. She had been worried, just for a split second. But Clint had come through. He had chosen her over the target.

"Thanks," she muttered, almost too low for him to hear.

Clint nodded. "We might have lost the target but we found his weapons cache."

Natasha nodded in agreement. At least they could complete one of the objectives.

"Would you like to do the honours, or should I," Clint asked.

Natasha smirked. "Let's blow them sky high."

Clint spun on his heel and Natasha followed him down the stairs. Clint laid a trail of explosives hurriedly as Natasha kept watch.

"Move it along," she whispered over her shoulder, pointing both guns down the hall. It was only a matter of time before the not-quite-crack shot-shooters returned with reinforcements. Clint placed one on the explosives that were clipped to his belt in the center of the room with the guns. Then he moved down the hall, rolling them under doors. When he emerged into an empty garage Clint turned at the sound of a gunshot.

"Romanoff?" he called.

Natasha sprinted into the garage backwards, firing off another round of bullets. There was a barrage of voices echoing down the hall. They were about to have company. Clint spun, eyes searching for a way out. There was nothing. The door to the garage seemed to have been walled off. They were trapped.

"Shit," Natasha murmured, coming to the same conclusion.

In less time than it took to breathe, they were surrounded on all sides. Men screaming at them in Hungarian.

"What are they saying?" Clint whispered to Natasha as they backed up.

Natasha's guns were still drawn, pointed away from her body and into the crowd. Her one clip was empty. She needed to reload, but she wasn't going to let them know that.

"What do you think their saying?" Natasha demanded. "They're inviting us for dinner."

Clint smirked. "You have a morbid sense of humour."

"I always try to look on the bright side when I'm about to be shot to death."

A man jumped forward, shouting in Hungarian. He flailed his gun at Natasha who backed up instinctively. Clint turned his bow from his nearest target to the man.

"Got any ideas Barton?" Natasha whispered hastily as the gun closed in on her head. She was getting really sick of having things pointed at her head.

"Not anything promising," he murmured.

She nodded. She said something in broken Hungarian to the men.

"What are you doing?" Clint asked under his breath. The men looked from one another, debating something. Natasha lowered her weapons slowly.

_"What are you doing?"_ Clint asked again, this time urgently. They were already sorely outnumbered. This was not going to help.

Natasha rose slowly. Clint noticed her left hand moving towards her belt as she stood. Then she sprang, pulling a knife from her belt.

Natasha reached behind Clint, ripping one of the specialized quivers from his sheath. She stabbed the metal casing that housed the reaction chamber, releasing a stream of thick smoke that quickly filled the surrounding area, shielding them all in a heavy grey fog.

Bullets started to fly randomly. There were grunts and groans as allies took each other out. Clint and Natasha dropped to the ground, crawling away from the sound of exploding firecrackers.

"Blow it," Natasha said. "Now Clint."

"Were two close," he said, scrambling forward.

"Now, or they'll cut us off again," Natasha choked through the smoke.

Clint groaned. He turned slightly and hooked his hand around her arm, dragging Natasha forward. He pulled her behind a set of steel drums. "Let's hope there is nothing explosive in these," he prayed, grappling for the trigger on his belt. He unhooked the device, lifted the safety lid and slammed his thumb down on the button.

There was a thunderous crash in the distance. The ricocheting bullets slowed as the men, still concealed in a thick fog, called frantically to one another. The warehouse imploded. Natasha could hear the snap of steel beams and the shudder of glass, but it wasn't far enough away. The explosive they had planted in the middle of the gun vault hadn't detonated.

"Why?" Natasha fumed.

Clint shook his head. "Must have been a dud," he said, wafting away the smoke around his head.

"It can't be," Natasha said. "That's our ticket out of here."

She dove back into the cloud of grey smoke.

"Romanoff," Barton called after her. "Romanoff! Get back here!"

She crawled forward, keeping herself low to avoid getting a bullet to the head. She could here muffled voices as they searched through the fog from Barton's arrow. Natasha fumbled forward along the wall, using it to find the hall which was filled with a steaming black smoke. She felt glass and debris pass underneath her as she crawled, praying the ceiling didn't cave in and crush her.

Natasha found the entrance to the gun room and crawled to the center where Barton had planted the explosive.

"Crap," she whispered, biting her lip. Someone had disconnected the trigger wire. All she had to do was plug it back in. But that would set it off manually. It had a failsafe of twelve seconds before it would blow.

Natasha exhaled loudly. _How fast could she run?_

A nervous hand gripped the trigger wire. Her eyebrows pinched together and she took a breath. She needed to do this. It was part of the objective. She needed to destroy the weapons or it was all pointless. What was the point of destroying the man in charge if his legacy survived? Someone else would just carry on his work. They had to take out both. It was now or never…_now._

Natasha kneeled beside the device and shoved the trigger back into the connection.

One. Two. Three. Her hands pushed off from the ground, a sprinter's start, as she lunged forward into the chaos of guns and men and smoke. Her shoulder hit the wall as she skidded into the hall on a row of broken glass. Four. Five. She covered her head with her hands as she ran, bracing for impact. Six. Seven. Eight. She crashed into someone as she ran, fists clenched. There was a crunch as two of her fingers popped from their sockets. Nine. Ten. She continued to push forward, yearning for distance. Was it enough? Would it be enough to save her? She ran blind, praying like never before. Eleven. Twelve.

It was almost silent before the noise started, as if the explosion had sucked in everything in the room before screaming for release. Then the world shook and Natasha felt herself failing under the power of the bomb.

The explosion hit her from behind. A wave of pure, boiling energy smashed into her back. She tripped as the wave knocked her to the ground. A pain exploded in her ankle as fire erupted from the room in uncontrollable plumes of orange and red. It soared overhead, scalding her exposed skin, shattering all windows, blowing out every door. Gun powder and lead filled the air.

The force of the explosion shook the very ground she had collapsed on, rendering the building unstable. Natasha saw red before she saw black, the suffocating streams of charcoal smoke closing in. Her eyes burned and fluttered, even as someone called her name.

"Romanoff!" Clint screamed as he slid to a stop next to her. "Don't do this," he pleaded. He shook her shoulders, cupped the sides of her face, pulling up her eyelids. He watched her pupils dilate and his heart thumped wildly, as if it might escape up his throat and out his mouth.

"Open your eyes," Clint begged. He wrapped his hand around her lower jaw. He squeezed and rocked her head back and forth, jostling her back to consciousness. "Look at me, Romanoff," he ordered. "Right here," he said, peering over her.

Natasha searched through the watery glaze that now filled her eyes. She saw the steely grey gaze and held it, choking and spluttering on her own breath.

Clint laughed shakily. Relieved because she was alive. Furious with her because she was an idiot. He wanted to wrap his arms around her. Instead he squeezed her hands. Everything else looked like it would have hurt to touch.

"You're such an idiot," he moaned.

Natasha coughed in response. "Next time a heads up would be nice," he said.

"No time," she stammered. "We were—"

"I don't care. You almost killed yourself," he said.

"I knew what I was doing," she insisted. Clint failed to acknowledge that they were about two seconds from being shot in the head. She didn't have much of a choice and she was tired of doing things the right way. The S.H.I.E.L.D way. It was time to hit them hard and fast. And she did. It wasn't always a pretty outcome, but it had worked.

He shook his head in disbelief. "Never again," he whispered. She rolled her eyes at him and he bit back a laugh, noting that her being annoyed with him was a good sign. The explosion hadn't rattled her brain too much. "Come, on. Let's get you out of here before the building comes down on our heads."

Clint pulled Natasha to her feet, supporting her as they stumbled through the fire and ash to the exit. Once outside and out of sight from anyone that was drawn to the exploding warehouse lot, Clint scooped Natasha into his arms bridle style, ignoring her blatant protests.

She hammered against his chest. Her attempts were weak and Clint knew they were empty. She didn't really want him to put her down. She was exhausted. Every bone in her body was screaming at her. Every muscle was coiled. Every organ drained. Clint could see it in her face. The fight had taken its toll, especially when she went and almost got herself blown up. He held her a little tighter as that thought crossed his mind.

"I can walk, Barton," Natasha said through gritted teeth. Everything hurt. It even hurt to talk.

"Yeah, I'm sure you can with that bummed ankle," Clint whispered sarcastically. "But I'd like to get off the street sometime tonight, especially before the police show up and they find us geared up, covered in blood."

Natasha muttered something derogatory in Russian. Clint jostled her, wrapping his arms tighter behind her back and under her legs. She noticed the wide gash across his forehead. It looked like he had tried to stop the bleeding at one point since the blood was smeared down the side of his face.

"Let's get off the street," Clint muttered. "Can you hold on for a second?"

Natasha manoeuvred so she was supporting most of her weight, clinging to Clint's chest as he quickly shot an arrow. The grapple connected with the edge of a building and they shot forward as the repelling line hoisted them up.

Once on the rooftops Clint helped Natasha hobble back to the hotel, with a lot of annoyed elbow jabs from her direction as he helped her stand. Clint didn't mind. There was a lot of chuckling on his part. He noted that Natasha was sort of adorable when she was irritated and even grouchier when she needed help.

She glared at him the entire way and Clint couldn't take his eyes off her, even if he had wanted to. And he didn't.


	4. Chapter 4

"Shit," Natasha muttered as she dropped the soap again. Showering was much more difficult with injuries. In the fight she had amassed quite a few.

Right now she was balanced precariously on the slippery shower floor, standing on one foot. Her ribs were bruised like someone had used her sides to play the bongos and now her right hand didn't want to cooperate because two of her fingers were swelling.

"Romanoff, you alright," Clint called through the crack in the door. When she didn't answer because she was currently trying to pry the shampoo lid off with her teeth, Clint entered. "I was just coming in to wash my face, is that okay?"

She dropped the bottle. It thudded against the tub, sliding into her leg. Natasha held back a painful moan.

"Fine," she muttered, wracking her brain for another way to get the shampoo bottle flipped and in her hand without ending up on her ass since she was presently using her good hand to support her weight.

"You sound like you're having trouble," Clint commented.

Natasha scoffed. "What gave you that impression?"

"You've been swearing at the soap for the better part of twenty minutes."

She sighed, cursing herself for cursing and alerting him to her troubles. "I'm kind off hating having long hair right now." Fumbling around very carefully she managed to get the shampoo and place it back on the side of the tub.

Clint smirked as he wiped his face with a damp washcloth. He managed to escape the fight relatively unharmed, just a few scratches. "I could help you, if you wanted," he said innocently, dropping the cloth and shoving his tooth brush into his mouth.

"You're kidding," Natasha said, still fumbling with the shampoo bottle. Leave it to Barton to be a jerk when she was obviously having a hard time. She was getting a tension headache just from concentrating so hard on the bottle.

"No, I wasn't," came a voice. Natasha heard him spit into the sink and then she felt a cool breeze along her back and whipped around, pulling the shower curtain around her.

"Jesus, Barton, are you trying to get me to throttle you?"

He leaned up against the wall next to the shower.

"As fun as it sounds, no." He gestured to his face. "Eyes are closed, so I'm impaired."

"Oh, is that supposed to save my modesty?" Natasha said sarcastically.

"Maybe," Barton smirked. "Mostly I was just trying to make sure you didn't gouge my eyes out."

"Well, maybe next time you'll knock before opening the shower curtain," Natasha muttered.

Barton shrugged, eyes still squeezed tight. "You're stubborn. You never would have accepted my help if I only asked politely. I'm here now, so the choice is easier."

"Yeah, right," Natasha muttered. She could smell the minty toothpaste as he spoke.

Barton shrugged. "It's your choice. You can let me help you or you can sit in there and shrivel up like a raisin until your hand heals. Either way, it's going to be uncomfortable."

Natasha frowned.

"Fine," she grumbled. He was right after all. She had already been in the shower for a half-hour and she was no closer to being any cleaner than what she was when she started.

She turned slowly, pulling the shower curtain with her so the only thing exposed to Barton was her back and her head.

"I have to open my eyes to see the back of your head," he said flatly.

"Fine, just don't look anywhere you don't need to," Natasha muttered.

"I won't," he promised. He bent slightly to take the shampoo bottle from the corner of the tub.

"Wow, they really got your ribs good huh?" he said, noting the dark purple circles that were outlined on her back.

"Thought you weren't looking," Natasha said. He could hear the smile in her voice.

"I wasn't," Barton said, squeezing shampoo onto his hand.

"Mmm hmm," Natasha hummed.

Barton's fingers slipped into her scalp, massaging. He pulled her long red hair into a knot at the top of her head as he worked in the soap. His ministrations felt so good, especially after the day they had. She almost sighed. He tipped her head forward gently, pushing her towards the hot stream of water, rinsing the soap from her hair. "Close your eyes," he told her.

"I feel like I should be the one saying that," Natasha joked.

"I'm being very professional," Barton assured her.

"You know I'm naked right?"

"No, I hadn't noticed."

Natasha smirked.

Clint kept his focus on the back of her head but as the red curls slipped from his hands he followed them down her graceful neck, and eventually down the strait of her back. Her skin glistened under the water: milky white and soft.

His eyes followed where they shouldn't, knowing the shower curtain was slipping away. With effort he pulled his gaze up.

It wasn't like he had never seen a woman in the flesh before and it wasn't as if he hadn't seen Natasha in very little clothing. She often trained in shorts and nothing more than a training bra, leaving very little to the imagination. When they sparred and he would pin her, hands trapping her arms above her head, he could feel the swell of her chest as it rose to meet his, the coarse and delicious friction as their hips glided together. _"You like using your hands, don't you?"_ Natasha would often say to him just as she managed to wrap her legs around his back to flip them on the mats. Her pelvis would crash against his as their stomachs collided like two walls. He could feel every muscle of her abdomen tense as she pinned him. _"I prefer the legs."_

Barton shook his head. As much as he longed to hold her for real and not in one of their training simulations, he knew she would never reciprocate his feelings, could never, it wasn't aloud. Still, it wasn't without great effort that Barton managed to get any feeling out of her at all. That's why he teased her so. That tiny spark of anger, of annoyance. It meant she was still human. There was still a heart to toy with.

But now, even in this compromising position, with her leg pulled up to keep the weight off her ankle and the lines of bruising on her back, there was something so delicate and feminine about her. So vulnerable. He wanted to protect her. Scoop her up in his arms and keep her safe. Even if that was all he could ever do for her, he wanted to keep her safe.

"There," he said, washing the last of the soap from her red locks.

Romanoff turned slightly, looking back over her shoulder. She reached up and grabbed his hand as it rested on her shoulder blade. "Thank you, Barton."

He watched the water caress her face gently, sliding along her cheek bone and pooling on her lower lip. Her tongue flicked out to soak up the small puddles.

He swallowed down the fiery heat that was ripping through his chest and nodded. "No problem. I'll grab your towel. You left it in the room."

Natasha turned the water off as Barton left, returning several seconds later. She stood behind the curtain, waiting for him to leave the towel.

"Just leave it on the counter, I'll be fine."

"Romanoff, don't start that. You could barely stand in the shower, don't even pretend like you're going to get climb out of the soap-slicked porcelain without killing yourself."

"Death by soap. What a way to go," Natasha mused.

Barton chuckled. It was a deep throaty sound and Natasha felt her pulse race. Stupid. _Stupid._

She hovered for a moment. "Close your eyes," she mumbled.

"Already on it," Barton replied to her. He held the towel in both hands, opening it wide to her. His eyes were shut firmly. He heard the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back. A hand rested on his shoulder, the water soaking into his shirt. He didn't care. Another hand rested on his other shoulder.

He waited for her grip to tighten, but before it could he heard the sound of skin sliding against porcelain. Natasha had slipped, pitching forward. Her arms reached for the first upright thing which happened to be Clint's neck. Her arms locked around him as his arms wrapped to envelop her in the towel.

"Well that worked out well," he mused. "I told you the tub was dangerous." Clint opened his eyes slowly, sure that Natasha was securely wrapped in the towel, if only because he was holding it around her.

"Sorry," Natasha mumbled. Her face was still wet. Beads of water dropped off the ends of her hair. Her lips glistened as her eyes raked over his face.

Clint blinked stupidly, holding Natasha flush to his body. He could feel every curve of her, separated only by the towel and his clothing. The water from her body soaked into his shirt, pooled around his shoes. He still didn't care.

"It's okay," he whispered, only because her face was right in front of his. So close that he could smell the shampoo on her hair, feel the warmth in her breath as she breathed against his neck.

Her lips parted, arms tightening around his neck. Instinctively Clint leaned down, preparing to meet her, then he whispered, "Tea?"

"What?" Natasha murmured against his throat. Clint swallowed.

"Do you want some tea, before bed?"

Natasha pulled her eyes down; looking at the floor, attempting to shake off whatever crazy thoughts had just taken over her brain.

"Yeah, that would be…nice," she said. Carefully, Clint set her down on the side of the tub.

"Pyjamas are on the counter," he said, slowly backing up. "You good?"

Natasha nodded. "I'm good."

Clint disappeared, with the task of making tea to occupy him. Natasha on the other hand wanted to stab herself in the eye with towel bar. What was wrong with her?

She busied herself with the difficult chore of pulling her pajamas on. Clint had left her a pair of shorts and a running T-shirt. This should have been simple. She could take down ruthless mercenaries with one hand but right now she was being foiled by an elastic waistband and two arm holes.

When she finally managed to slide into the clothing she ran the towel over her sopping hair once more, squeezing out the majority of the moisture. She could still smell Clint on the towel, from when held it (and her) against his chest. He had felt so warm, so secure. In his arms she had literally melted. She shook of the distraction. _Clint_. It was Clint doing this to her. Him and his perfect scruffy hair. The short stubble on his chin. Those piercing eyes. The way they held her own gaze. Lasting and longing.

Natasha groaned, flinging the bathroom door open. She looked up and stopped cold. Clint stood there, staring at her. His eyes were a deep abyss of longing.

There was no tea. She remembered to note that.

She hobbled forward and opened her mouth to say something. Clint stepped forward to meet her and that's when his lips crashed into hers. It was urgent, forceful, and at the same time soft and gentle. Clint cupped her face with one hand, the other scooping around her waist to support her weight because of the bummed ankle.

Natasha wrapped her arms around his neck again, this time using it as leverage to force their lips together, deeper. She ran her tongue along his bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth. Clint moaned against her as they found the door to the bedroom. He made sure to wrap his arms around her waist to act as a buffer between her bruised ribs and the doorframe.

"We should stop," Natasha said in heated whispers.

"We should," Clint agreed.

"This is against every protocol in the damn book. S.H.I.E.L.D will fry our asses," Natasha said huskily as Clint's lips travelled down her neck.

"I was never much for protocol. You know that Romanoff," Clint said against her face as his tongue travelled up behind her ear.

"I'm probably on my way out the door once you submit that report. So…"

"So…," Clint echoed. He pressed his forehead against her own, feeling her heart beat against his chest.

"Natasha," she said quickly.

"What?" Clint asked, brow crinkling.

"You can call me Natasha, if you want."

Clint smiled. "Only if you call me Clint."

She responded with a heated kiss that occupied both their hands and mouths, so Clint had to kick the bedroom door open with his foot. He also managed to kick it closed again before they collapsed in a heap on the bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha awoke the next morning. She felt well rested, but achy. Her ankle still hurt, but as she propped herself up to examine the damage she noticed her ankle had been wrapped properly with a tenser bandage. Her wrist had a similar bandage. She inhaled deeply, smelling the faint musk of Clint's cologne. She thumbed the oversized shirt that covered her between her fingers. It was his.

She moved the shirt slightly seeing that he had also wrapped her torso, covering the aching ribs. She smiled.

Her head turned as a ray of sun split through the dusty blinds, highlighting the room in sharper contrast. There were clothes scattered lazily about, socks hanging off bedposts, pants strewn across dresser tops. The memories washed over her like a gentle, building wave until she remembered it all with vivid clarity.

They had been busy.

"Good morning," Clint said, walking through the door. He placed a steaming cup of black coffee on the table next to her.

"Morning," she said, her voice dry and husky.

Clint grinned, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"Sore," she said. He nodded.

"Thanks for this, by the way," she said motioning to the first aid work he had done. Natasha usually neglected to take care of herself when she was injured.

Clint nodded. "Sure."

"I must have been really out of it for you to wrap me and not remember it," she commented.

"You passed out sometime after round three," he said smirking. Natasha grinned, reaching for his hand.

"Did you not sleep at all?" she asked.

"Not much," he admitted.

"Then come back to bed," she said, tugging on his arm. He flopped down next to her, stretching out.

He sighed contentedly, watching her trace small circles onto his chest.

"You're quiet," he said.

"Mmm," she murmured.

"What are you thinking?"

Natasha picked her head up to look at him. "Aren't you worried about how this is going to change our partnership?"

"Tell me something first," he requested gently.

Natasha eyed him.

"Do you regret it? Any of it?"

"Not one minute," Natasha said reverently.

Clint smiled down at her. "Then no, I'm not worried," he said truthfully.

"No?" she repeated. She was surprised at how quickly he answered.

"If I'm being honest, I think this will help."

"You won't get distracted?" Natasha teased.

He shook his head. "I was distracted not knowing how you felt. Having these feelings and not being able to act on them distracted me. Now, knowing how you feel I can spend all the time I want just getting distracted by you, which means when it's time to work I can focus."

Natasha nodded into his chest. "And what if we don't make it. What if we are just another statistic?"

"Then I think we can both handle ourselves well enough to be professional in our partnership. We can still work together, Nat, and we'll be lucky to know each other as well as we do. From where I'm standing whether this works or it doesn't, I only see us getting stronger."

"I hope your right," Natasha said.

Clint chuckled. "I thought you said I'm always right.

He felt her smile against his chest. "No, I said you always have to be right. There's a difference."

"I think I like it better the first way," Clint said.

"Me too," Natasha agreed. If it meant he was right about them, about the good that would come from this relationship, then she would let him have it. He could be right, as long as she got him in the end.

Clint kissed her head, burying his face in her hair. "Sleep for a few more hours, then we have work to do."

"Work?" Natasha asked, brows lacing together.

Clint nodded. "I found out where our target is going to be today."

She arched her eyebrow. "What exactly were you doing well I was asleep?"

Clint chuckled, hugging her close. Her legs tangled around his.

"I weeded through some of the information I managed to transfer off the computer." Natasha spied an open laptop on the dresser.

"And what did you find?" she asked, propping her head up on her hand.

"Murdoch had plans to leave the city today at noon. He's got a privet jet arriving at the airport. I already called ahead to confirm."

Natasha nodded. "I suppose he's desperate to get out of the city, especially now that his warehouse has gone up in flames."

Clint kissed the tip of her nose before his eyes flashed in agreement. "He knows someone is after him, he just doesn't know who."

"Or when they're going to strike next."

"Exactly," Clint said. "This will be over before you know it."

At exactly eleven thirty-three Natasha boarded the private jet as a hostess. Clint made his way beneath the jet and into the cargo hold, before working his way through the internal structure of the aircraft. Positioned in one of the air vents he could hear and see everything going on.

He snuck up near the front of the jet first. Once Murdoch had boarded and spoken to the pilots, he fired two tranquillizer quivers at them. This jet was going nowhere.

Natasha made quick work of the other hostesses, incapacitating them. She laid them gently on the floor behind the dividing curtain, making sure to hide their limp forms.

Natasha continued mixing the stiff drink Murdoch would never finish. She dropped an olive into the bottom of the glass, placed it on a tray and walked out from behind the curtain, plastering a sultry smile on her face.

"Your drink, sir," she said, batting her eyelashes at him.

Murdoch settled into his chair with a disgusting grin on his stringy lips. "We'll you're a pretty one," he said. "Where'd Travers dig you up from?"

Natasha shrugged coyly. She placed the drink on the table next to Murdoch. His hand snapped out and captured her wrist. His grip was firm.

"You local?" he asked.

Natasha pouted her lips just so. "I'm not from around here," she whispered huskily.

Murdoch sank further into his chair, reclining. He pulled Natasha down, until she was straddling his lap. "What did you say your name was, sweetheart," he hissed, grinding against her.

"Whatever you want it to be," Natasha replied. She leaned forward, closer to Murdoch's twisted smile. Her chest met his. He heaved. "But most people know me as Black Widow," she whispered.

Natasha pulled away and when she did, Murdoch swore. Natasha had a gun pressed to his temple.

"This has taken a lot longer than I anticipated. You gave us the run around," she told him thoughtfully.

"Us?" Murdoch stammered.

Clint dropped down from the ceiling, landing silently beside Murdoch. He squeezed the man's shoulder threateningly.

"Thanks for your cooperation," Natasha said. She pulled the trigger. The silencer kept it quiet, but it didn't stifle the sound of brain matter hitting the window.

"That's bound to draw attention," Clint murmured. "I think it's best we leave." He pulled Natasha off of Murdoch. She straightened her clothes and holstered the gun back at her thigh.

"What do we—"

Clint gestured upwards. "I think our ride's here."

Natasha zoned in on the sound, hearing the familiar revving of the helicarrier's engines. Clint took her hand and led her to the back of the jet and down into the cargo compartment. They slipped out, navigating down the landing gear.

"That's convenient," Natasha muttered, shielding her eyes as the helicarrier descended onto the tarmac.

"I called them," Clint said. "I knew you wouldn't take long. You've been itching to get this guy for weeks and I want to get out of this godforsaken city already."

Natasha chuckled. "Eager are we?"

"You have no idea," Clint muttered. He ached to lean towards her, feel her lips against his, but he retained his composure as the helicarrier landed, the ramp releasing with a slow hiss to allow them entry. They had to be Hawkeye and Black Widow now, not Clint and Natasha.

Clint boarded and spent a few minutes conversing with the pilot before he dismissed himself and cornered Natasha. They were alone for a moment.

"Clint," she whispered urgently as he pressed her against the wall of one of the loading stations. "Someone will see?"

"Sorry," he muttered. "I thought it was time to be distracted."

Natasha sighed. "How long is this flight again?"

"Too long," Clint murmured.

Natasha nodded in agreement as she brought her lips to his once more. "One more for luck," she whispered. "Here goes nothing."

Clint shook his head. "Here goes everything, _partner_."

"_Partner_," Natasha sighed, breaking away. "Are you ready for this?"

Clint stepped away as the door to the room opened, a herd of Agents zipping between them. "I told you, I've got your back," he murmured and Natasha collapsed into the nearest seat, heart pounding out of control.


	6. Chapter 6

"Agents," Fury said as he greeted them at S.H.I.E.L.D once the helicarrier had emptied. Natasha and Clint made sure to leave an adequate distance between them as they walked down the hall. They both carried their own gear and plastered on mirror-like placid faces.

"I trust everything went well?"

"Yes sir," Clint replied, stopping in front of Fury and Agent Coulson.

Phil's eyes jumped between Natasha and Clint. He noted that they barely looked at each other.

"And the target?" Fury asked.

"Terminated," Natasha said evenly. "Along with all the weapons he had in storage."

"Excellent," Fury said, clasping his hands behind his back. "You two take the night off. We'll finish debriefing in the morning. I'd say you've earned it."

"Thank you sir," Clint said. He nodded at Phil then turned to Natasha. "Romanoff," he said.

"Barton," she replied. They looked at each other, a silent form of communication passing between them before they turned and walked purposely in opposite directions.

It only took them several minutes to meet up again. "Your place or mine?" Clint asked as he came up behind Natasha, pressing his lips to her neck. She moaned, leaning into him as her hand fumbled blindly in her pocket for the keys to her car.

They had both taken alternate routes to the parking garage.

"Don't care," she whispered. "My place is a mess, so maybe yours."

Clint chuckled. "Isn't it always a mess?"

"Yes," Natasha hissed as his lips moved expertly. "And there's probably no food in my fridge," she added.

"Then were definitely going to my place," Clint decided.

Natasha reached up, offering him the keys over her shoulder. "You should drive. I'm too distracted right now."

Clint chuckled. "I plan to make that much worse," he said as he got into the driver's seat.

Natasha climbed into the passenger side of the car. "I would expect nothing less," she said with a sly smirk.

Coulson chuckled heavily, after watching the agents disappear. It was a loaded laugh, but he doubted Fury would pick up on it. "And you were worried that they wouldn't work," he said conversationally.

Fury scoffed. "It wasn't that they wouldn't work. It was that they would be more than just—"

"They don't seem anything but professional to me." Coulson was lying through his teeth.

"They're two of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best agents. Together they are an incredible team. There is no room in that partnership for romance," Fury said knowingly.

"I don't think we have to worry about that, sir. Clint is a solitary being. Quiet. Reserved." That's what Coulson had always thought, until about five minutes ago. His interpretations had changed since then. Drastically.

"And the Widow is hard, cold. There was no room for love in what she was taught," Fury said.

"Exactly," Coulson nodded. "There is no way they could ever be more than partners. Neither of them look at each other like that. It's why they work so well. There are no feelings between them."

"I suppose your right. Never should have doubted you Coulson."

Director Fury clapped the agent on the back and dismissed the conversation.

Coulson waited several minutes until he was sure that Fury was out of ear shot before dialing.

"Clint," he said when he heard the phone click.

"Phil, what a surprise. I feel like I just talked to you," Clint said tartly.

Natasha placed a hand on his chest to relax him. Clint was anxious as he darted through traffic. He just wanted to take Natasha home and lock the door. Just her and him. How many times had she come to his place as Romanoff, entering as his partner, his equal, his co-worker? She was still all those things, but now it was Natasha. She was his Nat, and only his. No one else got to call her that. He wanted to run with her, turn off the lights and be alone without overthinking. He didn't want to worry about work. No S.H.I.E.L.D, no Fury, and no Coulson until they showed up to work tomorrow.

"You promised me nothing would happen," Coulson whispered through his teeth. He could tell right away that something was going on. He had known Clint far too long not to notice the gleam in his eye or the skip in his step. Natasha was harder to read. He had known her for less time, but there was a subtle difference in her energy, a softness, a faint glow that did not belong to the Black Widow.

"Phil, I can explain—" Clint began tersely.

"No, no, I don't want to know. Just keep it quiet. It's my ass on the line now too." As their handler and a senior Agent, Phil was required to keep them in check.

"Phil." It was Natasha now. She was trying to patronize him.

Phil rolled his eyes. "You better be the kind of actor your reputation claims because if Fury finds out—"

"I am and he won't," Natasha assured him.

Coulson sighed. "Just promise me one thing," he said to the agents who were both listening with bated breath. "What happened in Budapest stays in Budapest. Is that understood, Agent Barton?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Phil," Clint said, smiling over at Natasha.

"Romanoff?" Agent Coulson called.

"Budapest? I wonder if it's nice this time of year," she said with a sly smile. Clint leaned across the car to kiss her cheek, making the Black Widow burn crimson where his lips caught her skin.

"Exactly," Coulson replied. "And don't think this gets you out of training tomorrow."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Clint said, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder, taking Natasha's hand in his own. He kissed her knuckles gently and her heart skipped a beat.

"Agents?"

"Yes, Phil?" Natasha whispered, shaking off the daze Clint was putting her in. She could barely hear his voice through the speaker but had responded unconsciously, something about the way Clint was looking at her had her captivated.

"Good work of there."

Clint and Natasha looked at each other with wry smiles. "Where?" they asked simultaneously.

Coulson chuckled and hung up the phone. There was a small part of him that was jumping for joy. He really was a hopeless romantic and he figured that if Barton insisted on bending the rules it should at least be for something that made him happy.

If it was the Black Widow that made Hawkeye happy, then who was he to argue? After all, they were all adults here. They could keep one little relationship under wraps.

S.H.I.E.L.D had kept far more pressing matters top secret, surely a little love affair was nothing.

"I'm just going to pretend I never heard that conversation."

Agent Coulson cringed. The voice wasn't impressed. He turned stiffly, finding Fury's one eyed gaze upon him. "What conversation?" Phil said, shrugging his shoulders.

Fury nodded. "Exactly."

**-{}-**

_A barrage of laser beams soared over her head as she pulled out of her crouch beside the smoldering car._

_"It's just like Budapest all over again," Natasha shouted to Clint as she fired off two rounds before reloading. She flipped her head back and forth quickly, taking in the line of attackers._

_It was seemingly endless. A giant space whale rounded the corner and another wave of alien scum was quickly making their way towards the firefight: approaching on foot, repelling from buildings, descending out of the sky on giant flying drones._

_It was ridiculous. _

_She felt slightly overwhelmed by the enemy's ranks. It didn't matter how many she took out. For every one she brought down, another three seemed to appear._

_Natasha flashed back to a warehouse, surrounded by men with beady eyes and a never ending supply of assault rifles, all pointed at her head. She shook off the image. Now the men had been replaced by ugly space invaders with long pointy laser shooters. The closest group of them closed in. She could almost hear the twist of their lips into a wicked snarl beneath their masks. She tilted her head. Yep, it definitely reminded her of Budapest._

_Clint covered her from the other side, releasing an arrow to strike down the nearest alien attacker. He cocked an eyebrow incredulously. "You and I remember Budapest very differently," he told her._

_For a moment Clint was distracted. He could hear Natasha firing somewhere beside him. He registered the movement of her arm as she stretched to kill something closing in on him, but he couldn't see it. Not really. For the tiniest spark of a moment his eyes had glazed and he saw red._

_Long red locks. A steamy bathroom. Water against porcelain skin. A desperate kiss. The hot, sweaty tangle of limbs as they rolled together on the bed. Her eyes as they bored into his own. Her sweet mumblings as they made love for the first time. _

_He glanced at Natasha quickly, pulling himself from the memory. She didn't look at him directly, but under the hardened warrior's face, there was a tiny smirk on her lips that only he could see. Perhaps she was remembering it his way after all._

_And if not he would remind her. Once the alien attackers had been dealt with and Loki had an arrow through his eye socket, he would show her just how he remembered Budapest. Even if it took all night._

* * *

**_So...you made it this far! What'd you think? Drop me a comment and let me know...please and thank you :)_**


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